“You’ve never found it easy to send anyone into danger. As a general, it’s probably your biggest weakness.” Ford’s stare had been unyielding, though his tone had been soft as he said, “You can’t always be the one to take the risk, Carve. You can’t go on every dangerous mission, even though you want to.”
Carver hadn't been able to deny the truth in Ford’s observation. Letting his men take risks had never been easy. But this wasn’t a normal battle, and Amryn wasn’t one of his soldiers. She was his wife. If anything happened to her . . .
He summoned up the image of the mental bridge, just as his grandfather had taught him. It grounded him, as nothing else could. Then—shoving aside the urge to go after Amryn—he turned instead to the door next to his own.
He allowed himself one bracing breath before he knocked.
There was no answer. Which wasn’t exactly surprising, since his father had warned him that Berron rarely answered. His father had also told him if Berron wasn’t meeting with Janson, he would be in his room. And since Carver knew Janson was in a meeting with some other chancellors right now . . .
He knocked again. “Berron?”
Nothing.
Carver tried the handle and found it unlocked. He walked right into a suite that was a mirror of his own. It was hard to make out much of anything, however. The drapes were pulled across the windows, drenching the room in darkness. There was a stale, musty smell that assured him Berron didn’t often air out the room. It competed with the nearly overwhelming stench of brandy.
Slowly, Carver’s eyes adjusted to the dimness enough to make things out. A large bed—unmade—sat on his left. Clothing was scattered over the floor, nearly hiding the blue and gold rugs.
“Entering without permission is rude.”
Carver’s focus snapped to the back corner of the room where two armchairs sat angled toward each other. Berron was sprawled in one, his legs sticking out over the floor as he slouched low in the chair. Carver had no idea what he was doing, sitting there in the dark.
He straightened his spine. “You didn’t answer.”
“There may have been a reason for that.” In the shadowed room, Carver could just make out his brother’s bearded face. His left hand was fisted on the rolled arm of the chair, the only thing revealing any tension. His voice remained unconcerned as he drawled, “But then again, when did the rules ever apply to you?”
Carver ignored that. Ignored every barbed memory that was trying to gut him as he looked at his younger brother. A brother who had once played with him. Trained with him. Grinned freely, laughed loudly, andlived.
This bitter, wrecked shell of a man wasn’t his brother.
Carver closed the door and crossed to the window. He dragged back the heavy drapes, just a fraction.
Berron growled at the invasion of light, but made no move to get up. Merely squinted a one-eyed glare at him. “The rudeness continues.”
Carver sat in the opposite chair, facing Berron. His brother had barely stirred, though he blinked fiercely against the light. His eyepatch was firmly in place, but it only made the redness rimming his remaining eye all the more obvious. Carver’s gut dropped. “Are you takingsonneagain?”
Berron snorted. “No. I just have a brother who insists on blinding the only eye I have left.”
The eye in question was watering fiercely. Who knew the last time Berron had seen sunlight. And according to Cregon, Berron had difficulty sleeping. Carver decided to accept those reasons for the bloodshot eye, though it was more likely due to the nearly empty decanter sitting nearby.
At least it wasn’tsonne.
“How are you?” he asked.
Berron’s lip curled. “Is that a bloodyjoke?”
“No.”
His brother raised his right arm, the missing hand glaringly obvious. “You can’t see this, because my hand was cut off, but I’m making a gesture right now that got us a slap on the back of our heads when we were children.”
The humor was dark. Sarcastic, yet edged with derision. It made Carver’s throat tighten. All he could think about was the last time he’d spoken to Berron before leaving for Harvari. He’d tried to tell his brother goodbye. That he loved him.
“I blame you. I hate you.”
Those were the last words Berron had spoken to him. And when Carver had been carried back to Westmont, brutalized and nearly dead, Berron had never come to see him. Just as Carver hadn’t gone to seehimbefore leaving for Esperance. They were strangers, now. Enemies, in Berron’s mind.
“I need to ask you some questions,” Carver said, fighting for neutrality in his expression and his voice.
“Then you’ll leave?”
